


hurricane mind, wrecking everything in its path

by OnyxSphynx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Newton Geiszler, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Female Hermann Gottlieb, Female Newton Geiszler, Female Newton Geiszler/Female Hermann Gottlieb, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Hermann Gottlieb, Touch-Starved, endgame newmann, it's all very melancholic, it's like a lowkey simmering i guess, medium-slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 15:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Newton hums again, fingers moving from her wrist to her palm; spreads her fingers out, one by one, flat; puts her hand over Hermann's.Hermann's other hand, on the steering-wheel, slackens, for a moment, falls down a few centimetres before she catches herself, tightens her grip; white-knuckled; and her skin feels like it's thrumming with surges of electrical energy. "You've got slender fingers," Newton says; apropos nothing."I—" her mouth is dry. "I played piano for many years," she says—whispers, more; voice hoarse. "P—pianist's hands."





	hurricane mind, wrecking everything in its path

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [harrowwharks](https://harrowwharks.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

" _ Hermann? _ " her mother asks, hesitantly; later. "That's a very... _ masculine  _ name."

"I know," Hermann mutters, not meeting her gaze; focusing, instead, on where her nails are digging little crescents of pain into her shins; focuses on that, instead. Her mother  _ means _ well, she knows that—but something about the way she says  _ Hermann _ tastes bitter.

"What am I supposed to tell Bastien?" she asks, at length. "To call you... _ that _ , instead of Hermione?"

_ Yes, _ Hermann wants to cry,  _ yes, mother, that is  _ exactly _ what I want _ ; but she bites her tongue; says, instead, "No, I—no, he's too... _ young _ . And I—when I do it—"  _ When _ , she says, not  _ if;  _ her mother said  _ if; Wait two years,  _ Hermione,  _ and if you still want to do it... _

"He'll be old enough, then," she says, more firmly than she feels.

Her mother gives a weak smile; she looks a bit like she's just come back from a funeral.

It  _ hurts _ .

"Alright," she says, "Hermione—"

Hermann cringes; the name is like a blade, somehow, even now; even almost a decade and a half of wearing it, and all it feels like is a mask. "Yes?" she asks, and digs her fingernails into her flesh as hard as she possibly can.

"I want you to tell your father," she says; non-negotiable, says the expression on her face, and Hermann could cry.

Instead, she plasters on a fake smile and says, "Of course," and digs hard enough that she feels the sticky ichor of blood well beneath her nails.

Her mother doesn't notice.

Later, she draws her knees up; inspects the broken skin and applies neosporin with clinical deftness; second-nature, now, nearly.  _ Do you long to spill forth?  _ she wonders, and presses a finger to the edge of one of the marks, watching as a dot of blood wells up, and then glances away.

Call me Hermann, she wishes she could say, but the words stick in her throat. Around her, the beat of the fan blades seem to whisper,  _ Hermione, Hermione, Hermione _ .

She grits her teeth.

* * *

"Hermann?" asks her therapist, pausing, for a moment; pen poised over paper. "That's...very traditionally  _ masculine. _ "

"I know," Hermann says, and this time, it feels tired.  _ You look like a boy. That's unladylike. Do you always have to be so  _ boyish? _ Why won't you put on makeup, Hermione, you'd look  _ so _ much better... _ I know. I know, I know, I know.

Mary jots down something, and asks, "Do you feel more connected to the feminine gender or the masculine gender?"

It's not meant to be insulting—she  _ knows _ it isn't; and yet, the words make her cringe. "Neither," she says, quietly, "neither," and what she really  _ means _ is  _ I feel too disconnected to be connected to  _ anything.

"Hmm," Mary murmurs, and Hermann can read, upside-down, the neat letters spelling out, in the wake of the pen,  _ gender confusion? _

She wonders if the bone-deep ache of weariness is meant to be there when she's not even eighteen, yet, settled into them like water soaking into a sponge, only far, far more vicious.

After, the double stream of the water fountain is a cold comfort; the icy water burning, almost, as she swallows. She pulls back; watches it go, for a few moments, tracing an arc in duplicate before it hits the metal and flows down the drain, and then lets got.

There's a Starbucks down the street; the door jingles as it opens; there's enough change in her pocket to order a brownie that tastes a bit like ash, a bit like fire, and altogether too much like emptiness. The cashier says, cheerily, "Have a good day, sir!"

Hermann smiles back wanly and wonders if the lights are meant to look so monochrome.

* * *

Her skin is cold—she knows, she knows; and yet, she cringes back away when the notary brushes her hand when giving her the paper and flinches. She signs her name, once; then, again, newly—Hermann Gottlieb—and then her mother signs.

The ache rises for a moment like the great dragon; courses through her bones, numbing; she shifts her cane and—

Breathes.

Out. In.

Out.

The colours are a bit wrong when she opens her eyes; the blues too blue, the reds to savage, and yet—

"You'll need to send this to the state department," the judge says, brusquely, "and then you'll get your new birth certificate in four to six weeks."

Her throat works for a moment, and then she says, "Thank you."

The ache coils around her limbs, numbing; like the air disturbed after a sigh, for a moment, suspended there, before it dispersed out and out and  _ out _ and away. She takes the paper and traces her gaze over the signatures on it.

Freedom, perhaps, is what that feels like; or making peace.

Perhaps one and the same?

* * *

"Why  _ Hermann? _ " Newton asks her, years after; after another kaiju attack and too many, far too many  _ screaming inside her head why didn't you stop it  _ deaths. The question is familiar to her by now, like the scratch of an old piece of furniture where the wood's gone like that, and the sandpapering's smoothness is gone, leaving the bite of splinters.

Hermann hums; one shoulder pulling up to her cheek as she slides down the wall a bit; leg-to-leg-to-shoulder-to-shoulder, pressed against her side: Newton, her hair shiny from the product and the sweat and the fact that she hasn't showered in far too long showing both there and in the bags under her eyes; slowly, Hermann says, "Mm...I didn't hate it."

She can't see it, but she can nearly feel the other's raised brow. "Oh?"

"Mhm," she hums; eyes slipping, now; "It's more than can be said of what we... _ I _ ...had, before." She sighs; finally, finally, head falling to rest on the biologist's shoulder; the rough of the leather jacket against her cheek, and wonders,  _ what does that feel like? _

_ Comfort _ , perhaps; not hate, not anymore—perhaps, even, not ever; not really.

A beat of silence; then: "Hermann?" Newton asks it tentatively, then; and Hermann can feel her hand hovering over her arm. She's going to ask something; she knows it, yes, but it's still a surprise when she does, somehow. "...is it always this bad?"

_ Bad? _ Hermann almost asks,  _ I don't know what you mean _ but—

Well.

The lights are still monochrome.

Her skin is still frigid.

Her thoughts, sharp, rest uneasily in her mind; relief the same now as it was when she was fifteen and the people would refer to her as "young man" because the relief is  _ relief _ is  _ dampened pain _ is  _ good _ . She doesn't— _ hasn't  _ done anything else for it, and never will, probably, but there's still the  _ discomfort _ .

She swallows.

Softly; "Yes."

"Oh," Newton says, softly, and her hand falls, lower, wrapping instead around Hermann's waist. "Oh."

"I'm...fine," Hermann says, after a moment; doesn't, though, pull away from the touch—because even though it feels a bit like her skin's lit on fire, the fire's melting that horrible, numb, icy ache, for  _ once _ and she  _ craves _ it, still, still,  _ still. _

Newton's hand; heavy, there, on against her waist; burning like an ember even through the layers and layers of clothing. "I don't want you to just be  _ fine, _ " she says, voice frighteningly brittle; she swallows, and Hermann wonders if it'll crack, otherwise. "I don't want you to just be  _ fine _ ," she repeats, "I—Hermann, I don't want you to  _ just _ be fine."

"I—" Hermann licks her lips; tastes, there, desperation. She can't continue; thinks, perhaps: this is what it feels like when old walls begin to crumble—shrouded half in dark, dappled through with sunlight in spots; ivy-covered and unloved;  _ aching _ , and then, finally, sweet, sweet release.

She pushes Newton's arm off of her; pulls away. It's too much, now. "Leave me  _ be, _ " she says, harshly; "I needn't your— _ pity. _ "

Newton lets her up without protest; doesn't call after her as she leaves, arm trembling slightly as she grips her cane; and somehow,  _ that _ hurts worse, almost.

* * *

She can't hold the chalk—it won't stay still in her hand; her mind's too scattered, her hands jittery.

Newton's hands are steady; surgical precision; Hermann watches them from the corner of her eye as she tries to pour the words of what emotions are running and stumbling and snarling and throwing themselves at the confines of her mind to no avail; the pen skitters across the paper and leaves scribbles instead of letters.

She sighs; lets it fall to the desk with a clatter, resigning herself to it: the day will not work out.

Newton, mid-experiment, pauses. "You stuck, Herms?" she calls, voice muffled slightly by the protective mask she's got on.

" _ No, _ " Hermann snaps; the wrong thing to say, of course; as soon as the word passes her lips, she realises how  _ sharp _ it is; the cadence and breath all wrong, and of course Newton will  _ notice _ , how can she  _ not?  _ She notices  _ everything— _

Tools against stainless-steel; gloves peeled away from skin, and beakers pushed to the side with an awful scraping sound; Newton, now, rises. "Bullshit," she says, blithely, "I know you're stuck on  _ something. _ "

This: Newton, it's true, knows her; too well, sometimes, for just as Hermann can detect the smallest changes in her movements without even seeing her, Newton is just as attuned to her  _ emotions _ —can  _ sense _ them from a mile off. "So what is it?" she demands, "is it a math-y thing? 'Cause I can help if it is—I actually  _ do _ know what you're talking about...half the time..."

"No, it's not—" Hermann sighs. "It's nothing. Just a— _ personal _ matter."

Newton moves closer. "Wanna talk—?"

" _ No _ ," Hermann bites out. "I said  _ personal  _ matter,  _ Geiszler _ —we are  _ labmates; work colleagues _ ."

The other draws back; Hermann can't bring herself to feel bad by the hurt that flashes across her expression. "Fine," Newton says, shortly, and walks back firmly into  _ her _ side of the lab; pulls her gloves on with a loud  _ snap  _ that feels, strangely,  _ bitter _ .

It's—

Nothing. It's  _ nothing.  _ If she ignores it, it'll go away—

(...for now.)

* * *

It hurts, probably, not getting touched—or it should; probably.

Instead, there's just the constant, dull ache of hollowness in her fingers and her spine, spreading through her ribcage and up her neck which she's long since learnt to ignore and push past; dwelling on it—wishing it were otherwise—is of no use to anyone.

Still; there's a longing, in her blood, for it; for contact—innocent physical contact, the kind she's not sure she's ever truly had.

Newton's the only one, really—unintentional, admittedly; hand brushing against Hermann as she gesticulates; her knee bumping Hermann's as her leg jitters under the table, trapped in yet another meeting; shoulder knocking Hermann's own when she leans over the back of Hermann's chain to see what she's working on; all sending electric shocks, leaving Hermann feeling inexplicably  _ energised _ .

Still; she chases after it, for a moment, before remembering herself and stopping; no good can come of  _ that _ .

But—

When Newton falls asleep, pressed to her side; after; blood dried on her lip, clothes muddied and torn; Hermann does not pull back. Newton's breath rasps against her cheek, softly; her hair—short, now, since she cut it off after it got stained by kaiju experiments—laying, for once, against her forehead instead of sticking up at angles.

Hermann breathes; head falling back against the wall, exhaustion weighing her down, and yet; electrified by the warmth of the other against her; slotting there like she's used to it, breathing even and uninterrupted.

Without thinking, almost, she raises her hand to brush away the sweat-slicked strands of hair from the biologist's face; freezes when she realises what she's doing, fingers poised over Newton's skin; close enough she can feel the heat of the other's skin.

Newton shifts; turns her head, burrows her face into the crook between Hermann's neck and shoulder. "'s too early to get up," she mutters, voice thick; half asleep, yet. "Jus' stay there and be a pretty pillow, Herms..."

She swallows; a heavy flush rising, inexplicably, to her face, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of her Newton is touching.

_ I must be going insane, _ she thinks, the words sounding muffled in her mind; veiled by a thick mist of  _ something _ .

* * *

_ Drifting, _ she writes, the pen stopping there; words frozen in time. She wants to get this out, she knows it; and yet all her mind is jumbled up with  _ Newton _ ; her mind, her thoughts, her words and eyes and hands and the heat of her skin on Hermann's when she grasped her hand, standing there, bloodied and bruised before the corpse of a kaiju and  _ grinned. _

So; then.

_ Drifting _ , she writes again, and the pen stutters; again; she sighs and crosses it out, the ink digging through the paper; skips down a line and begins anew, barely seeing the words she spills onto the paper.

_ Newton _ , she thinks; the light in her hair and the soft curve of her smile and the flash of her eyes that say:  _ mischief _ and the rapid movement of her fingers as she waves her hands; excited; the heat exploding on Hermann's fingers when they brush and the catch of her breath; eyes wandering over the shape of her form as she lays, asleep, against her.

The pen skitters across the paper fluidly; finally, her words flowing out as they're meant to.

* * *

_ Drifting; _

_ The weight of your hand in mine; _

_ The weight of your mind against mine _

_ And if I didn't know you then, _

_ I know you now, I know _

_ Just as you know me, _

_ I know _

_ The stretch of your mind into mine into yours _

_ And Ouroboros without end _

_ As round as the world _

_ And with just as many faults _

_ Your temper against mine _

_ Spewing fire over my _

_ Skin my _

_ Sight my _

_ Mind _

_ And when it cools bringing _

_ About the rise _

_ Of a new world; _

_ Your mind with mine _

_ Your hand with mine _

_ And mine with yours _

_ And you _

* * *

Newton; against her; eyes half-lidded.

The compartment between the driver's seat and passenger removed, and she'd protested it. "Newton, that isn't  _ safe _ —" but Newt'd won in the end; eyes wide and pleading, until, finally, Hermann relented; let the other place her head in her lap.

Now, she gazes up at Hermann; the road stretching before them, lit only by the light of the headlights, and, intermittently, other cars' headlights. "You're going to get killed if we hit something," Hermann says, conversationally, not looking down at the biologist.

"Mm," Newton hums, exhaling; the breath white in the cold air—December, now, and the snow's only stopped in the mountains, where they are; above the clouds. "Yeah, but I like it better here."

"On your head, then, so be it," Hermann shoots back; fonder than she intends; too tired to care to react to the hum of electricity beneath her skin; now.

"Oh, haha," Newton huffs, and reaches up to grab Hermann's hand.

" _ Careful, _ " Hermann snaps, but lets her; hand falling down against her chest. Newton rubs her thumb against the pulse-point at her wrist; slowly; the action so unexpected Hermann nearly pulls her hand away, but then, at the last moment,  _ doesn't _ .

Newton hums again, fingers moving from her wrist to her palm; spreads her fingers out, one by one, flat; puts her hand over Hermann's.

Hermann's other hand, on the steering-wheel, slackens, for a moment, falls down a few centimetres before she catches herself, tightens her grip; white-knuckled; and her skin feels like it's thrumming with surges of electrical energy. "You've got slender fingers," Newton says; apropos nothing.

"I—" her mouth is dry. "I played piano for many years," she says—whispers, more; voice hoarse. "P—pianist's hands."

For a moment, the car is silent; the loud of the quietness broken only by Newton's soft breaths, barely audible, and then she says, "I like them."

Non-sequiturs would, Hermann thinks, be a useful skill to  _ not _ have, but regardless, she blurts out, "I fixed your jacket."

The other blinks at her. "What," she asks, flatly.

Hermann blushes. "Your—jacket," she says, again, "I, ah, it was torn up that day, but I...I mended it for you. I just...hadn't found the time to tell you so. It's packed in our bags."

A few more seconds pass; the road disappearing beneath the belly of the car, and Newt sits up, taking the warmth with her. When she speaks, her voice shakes, just slightly. "I...Hermann, I don't know what to say..." She trails off.

Her hand is still holding Hermann's, Hermann registers, peripherally.

"It was no great trouble," she mutters, and stares intently out the windshield.

* * *

It's a little house, out in the middle of the woods; technically, they should be on septic—and yet, by some miracle, they're not. There's something that passes for a yard; Hermann views it dubiously—it's covered in  _ grass _ .

Newton, ever-excitable, slams the passenger door and grabs the keys, making a beeline for the door, and pulls it open. "Oh, wow!" she exclaims, turning to Hermann. "Dude, look at it—it's  _ huge! _ Can you  _ believe  _ we got this place so cheap?"

Hermann shrugs. "It's large enough for the both of us," she replies, "not 'huge', Newton, you've just grown used to military accommodations. And we both know  _ why _ it was so cheap."

They do; it's a coastal forest, after all—a coastal forest on the edge of a bay that spills right out into the Pacific; there's a reason they haven't got any neighbours for miles around. Still—Newton's grinning at her, door held open. "Let's go in," she says, toeing off her shoes, "we can check it out and then go get groceries and shit, yeah?"

"Oh, alright," Hermann sighs; she'd prefer to go do that  _ now _ , while the sun's still dimly shinning, but Newton's enthusiasm is infectious, and she's never been a match to the other.

So in they go: the kitchen, then the living room, and then the bedroom. One—physical proximity, they've learnt, helps keep at bay the worst of the nightmares, and for those that don't, it helps to wake up and have the other's presence there by their side.

"Ooh, look, we've got a  _ skylight! _ " Newton exclaims, pointing at the ceiling. "Dude, we can lay in bed and look at the stars—that's rad as  _ fuck! _ "

Hermann says nothing, but she begins to smile as well.

"Dude," Newton says, and turns to her; grinning. " _ Dude.  _ We get to live here in the woods together—no more PPDC, no more war..." she trails off. "We can do... _ whatever  _ we want." She says it like a revelation; perhaps, because, to some degree, it  _ is _ ; the end of the war hadn't really, truly felt  _ real _ until this; until  _ now _ ; standing here, together, in this house.

"We can buy ice cream at the grocer's," Hermann proposes, "and get started unpacking."

"Yeah," Newton says, after a moment. "Yeah, okay."

So they do; the tub of chocolate ice-cream between them as they sit there, in the living room, bags around them; every so often, Newton scoops up a spoonful of ice-cream and takes a bite—because, heathen that she is, she  _ bites _ it—and proclaims it better than the others, and offers it to Hermann.

"That's disgusting," Hermann says, the first time that it happens. "I'm going to get  _ sick  _ from that."

Newton laughs. "And yet, you're eating it anyway," she points out, and scoops out a bite for herself.

Hermann scowls at her and hopes she takes the blush for embarrassment.

Finally, there, at the very bottom of the last bag, she finds it: Newton's leather jacket, cleaned and repaired; worn soft by usage. She pulls it out and offers it to the biologist.

"I..." Newton trails off, gaze falling to the floor. "Hermann... _ thank you _ ," she says, finally, and takes the jacket; hands just a bit unsteady as they brush hers. She pulls it on—there's a chill in the air with the setting sun—; adjusts it around her shoulders a bit, and then—

Pulls it off.

"Did you—did I do something wrong?" Hermann croaks, heart in her throat, and Newton shakes her head.

"No, no, you didn't," she reassures, holding it out, "but...it's not  _ me _ , now, you know? Not anymore. So I think...I think maybe you should have it."  _ Symbolism _ , she doesn't say; but they're both thinking it: a give and a take; the Drift still strong between them.

Hermann swallows.

When she slips it on over her button-up, it feels like coming home for the first time in her life.

* * *

"You and your husband should come over some time," says the neighbour to Newton, the tiny cat in her arms currently appreciating Hermann's attention. "Ray and I'd love to have someone to barbecue with—we've got nearly no neighbours anymore, so..." she trails off with a laugh.

Hermann scritches the cat behind her ears. "What's her name?" she asks.

"Leslie," the woman says, warmly, just as Newton says, "Oh, no, Hermann's not—"

"We'd love to, thank you for the offer," Hermann cuts in, and smiles back.

She gives Leslie one last stroke, and then they're off.

As they walk down one of the barely-there trails through the woods, Hermann stopping intermittently to peel chunks of moss off of the ground, rocks, and bark around them, handing them to Newton, who puts them into a large box, Newton asks, "Why didn't you correct her?"

"Hmm?" Hermann asks, and carefully pulls up a piece of the ground, lush with moss.

"About you being my husband," she clarifies. "Why didn't you correct her?"

"Oh," Hermann says. "That." Her voice is steadier than expected; usually, this is a topic she avoids. "I...it's more comfortable," she settles on, "to be seen like that, instead."

"Uh," Newton says, and takes the moss from her, "you...don't  _ mind _ people thinking we're in a relationship?"

Hermann stops. " _ What? _ " she asks. "No, I thought you meant—"

"Ohhh," Newton says, then; "Uh, yeah, no, I mean relationship, not... _ that _ . Inner Turmoil." She laughs, awkwardly.

"Oh," Hermann mutters, gaze flicking to the ground; hand gripping tight to her cane. "No, I...I don't mind," she admits. "Not...not anymore."

"'Anymore'?" Newton parrots.

"I..." this isn't a conversation she'd thought she'd ever have; not ever, and  _ certainly  _ not in the middle of the woods, hands covered in dirt, slugs crawling slowly in the leaf litter off the side of the path. "I've...not ever put much thought towards it," she says finally, which is a  _ lie.  _ "Why?"

"Because," says Newton, "because, um. I have. A lot, actually."

"Ah," says to Hermann; softly, and then, again, "ah."

"And," Newton continues, "and I... _ I  _ don't mind." She takes a breath; softly, almost a whisper, "I don't mind. Not...not at all." She's looking intently at the ground, now, jaw set; trembling, lightly, nearly imperceptibly, where she stands.

"...oh," Hermann breathes.

"Yeah," Newton says.

"Oh," Hermann says, and falls silent.

"Uh, buddy, can you...say something, maybe?" Newton laughs, nervously, "you're kind of freaking me out."

Hermann blinks. "No, I...I was just—"  _ readjusting my worldview,  _ she doesn't say. "...thinking."

"Uh, good thinking, bad thinking, 'I'm extremely uncomfortable' thinking? Help me out here, dude," Newton says; voice high. Hermann realises, in that moment, that it's the high of  _ anxiety _ ; Newton's working herself into an anxiety-induced attack.

"Good," she says, firmly, "Newton, calm down; I'm not  _ upset _ , I promise. I was merely... _ processing _ ."

"...okay," Newton says, and puts the basket down, hands shaking; now. "Okay."

"I...I would not mind, either," Hermann ventures. "In situations where people mistakenly assume...or...or even, perhaps... _ not  _ mistakenly." Damn it;  _ she's  _ shaking, now, too.

" _ Oh _ ," Newton squeaks. "I—shit,  _ really? _ I thought—" she cuts herself off.

"Yes, really," Hermann says, and drags the toe of her boot through the dirt. "In fact, not only would I not mind, I..." she takes a steadying breath. "I would...be quite  _ pleased. _ "

"O—oh," the other says. "That's... _ oh _ . Okay. Um. Good. Yeah, that's...that's good."

They stand there, silently; Hermann rubs her thumb against her index finger, trying,  _ trying _ , to summon up her courage; Newton beats her to it. "You look like you want to ask something," she observes; correctly, of course she does.

"I wanted— _ want _ ," she corrects herself, forcing the words into the open. "I want to ask if...if I c—can kiss you?" Her voice is near a whisper at the end, and she can't bring herself to meet Newton's gaze; not now, not  _ now. _

" _ Yes, _ " Newton breathes, like a revelation.

Hermann's gaze snaps up to meet hers, and she says, again, "Yes. Yeah, I—yes, I want you to. I want you to kiss me, Hermann."

" _ Oh, _ " Hermann says, and; carefully,  _ carefully _ , each step measured, closed the distance between them. For a moment, she stands there, close enough to the biologist that she can feel her breath, but not touching; and then, like glass breaking—all of a sudden—the stillness between them breaks.

Hermann's hand comes up to cup Newton's jaw, angling it up, and she leans down to close the gap.

Newton's mouth fits against hers messily; missing, in her enthusiasm, as she balances on her toes, half of Hermann's mouth; but after a second, they figure it out; Newton's hand on her waist, gently, the other on the back of her neck, like she never wants to let go.

When they break apart, Hermann's breathing is laboured slightly, and she gazes at Newton's face. "You've got something, there," she says, after a beat; Hermann's fingers, muddied from her endeavours, have left streaks on her jaw.

Newton laughs; reaches up to rub them away. Then she picks up the basket again, and darts forward to press a kiss to Hermann's cheek. "We should get home," she says, "the sun's setting—we don't want to get lost."

She hikes the basket up onto her hip, and offers Hermann her free hand.

Hermann takes it. "Let's," she says.


End file.
